Come in, children, from the cold…
and warm your hands upon the hearth that simmers sweet.
Each ember’s murmur sparks an age reborn in heat,
Hush, my worried children, hush…
and you will hear a steady rhythm in the boughs
who sigh no better time for letting go than now,
than right now.
Rest, my weary children, rest…
your soul hangs ragged from the ceaseless grind of years,
lay back and let the fragrant pastures dry each tear
and please draw me near,
and I’ll be near you.
Dream, my sleeping children, dream…
and we’ll evoke infinite wonders from the flame
each spark resounds as moss awakening in rain.
Moss in rain is how our dreams came.
The acorn earthward
foretold the seed’s burst
oh, how she assures.